Love of the Lonely

With silence as our audience and the moon as our witness, I kissed her.

The cold of the night begged our bodies to stand closer, the tension in the air called for something more than just simple conversation, and the space between our lips wishing to come to a close.

She spoke of home as if it were a time forgotten. Her face wore the smile of solemn remembrance, like a past that could have been but the way of the world made sure that it wasn’t. She looked lonely then, and when she looked at me I understood that sometimes conversation can't take your mind off of everything.

So, I kissed her with my eyes closed and my hands around her waist. Her hands found my chest as she pulled me closer, and together our tongues danced.

 

We left the lights off, for depriving our senses of sight meant we could feel each others story more closely.

We let our hands read each other’s skin like brail, her gasps a guide to where she wanted me most.

She whispers my name when we love.

And in the afterglow, she calls for me. Scratches on my back and bites on my neck evidence that I am hers in more way than one. She leaves her clothes on my floor and her fingerprints on my skin. Fingertips circling my heart like a predator to prey, as if she knew it was hers if she wanted it.

But when the sun spilled in through the blinds, morning found me alone. Found her clothes picked up from the floor, found her lips pulled from mine.

But despite our loneliness I am warmed by the idea that even the loneliest of people can keep each other company, if not for just one night.